The Glass Facade
by Kasan Soulblade
Summary: It should have been made of steel, forged of resolve, and tempered in strength, yet the company wasn't. It was made of glass, and the first rock thrown by an Avalanche brought it tumbling down.
1. Intro: A toast

A Facade of Glass

A Facade of Glass

A Toast

_To my readers,_

_After some thought I'm going to start the game novelization... there might be a few breaks as I play the game to do research and brain storm... but that's the way of fanfic I suppose. As always, pleasant reading. In the opening chapter I introduce (for those who haven't read my other works) Rufus... and a few of the Turks._

_Kasan Soulblade_

Glasses chinked and rattled. The small, fussy, cups more sited to hold tea than strong drink clinked musically. The meeting of glasses was a one note symphony that rattled and tinkled as they tapped rim against rim. Shot glass of whisky, and elegant edge of a wine cup, the porcelain rim that held sake. Touch and go, then silence fell, then silence in turn was felled.

"A toast, gentlemen, to AVALANCHE. May they drive the Fat Man to greater deprivations and acts of stupidity."

Liquor went down the hatch where it burned and soothed. Like silk it smoothed, like morasses is stuck, and with a fire of liquid intensity and tenacity it scorched. They were all veterans here, no rookies allowed to this quiet, private, celebration, and as veterans of their favorite poison they endured. Despite the burning and swallowing not one cough or wince broke the moment.

All the better for that moment to be savored.

It was an odd assortment that had jammed itself into a stark, empty, office: one half of a partnership, an heir, and a leader amongst killers. Yet rank and experience was cast aside for this one moment.

Amongst them, serving as coasters and placemats were the most secret of secrets, at least those given voice within script. There were other secrets, darker, deeper, secrets that dared not be set in type. But for those... well for those there were other days for ferreting out information.

Helping himself to another glass, not bothering to even put it "on the rocks", Rude took his second drink of the night in one go. On the other end of the spectrum Tseng stood... at least metaphorically, as a shining example of anti-boozing. Both Turks sat shoulder to shoulder, but in manner and motion, everything was reversed. From pouring, to downing, interest and observation prevailed as the second drink went down in tantalizing little sips. Helping himself to another glass, Rude hit his third in a few moments, his superior -with a condescending smirk- set his cup so it was to the side.

"One of us should remain sober." He replied to the unspoken query that came from across the table.

Amused, Rufus Shinra, heir to the Shinra Electric Company and primary engineer of the current Presidents' downfall, met the Turk's smirk with one of his own. Then, taking a bit from column A and column B, the heir poured and watched his drink settle with appreciation before emptying it in one go.

Slanted, black, eyes thinned in distaste. Forgoing a full grimace, the Wutia Turk settled for a half hearted glare. Meeting the glare with a smirk, Vice President considered his Turk.

"If I were a betting man I would give them a week." Running a hand through his blond hair the Shinra continued to smirk, though he broke the test of wills by shifting his gaze. He spoke in a merry tone, as if it weren't his company that would burn if "they" acted. When silence became weighty the Shinra acquired the hobby of studying what lay beyond a non-existent window. Pursuing imaginary scenery with that "the world be damned" smirk that infuriated his father's associates -to say nothing of the homicidal fury it inspired in the fat man himself- Rufus Shinra seemed oblivious to the world at large.

The young man was an odd image, filled and surrounded by contradiction and chaos being near him felt like being near the edge of a storm. His room of choice was stark that said nothing over the material power he wielded; it matched his clothing choice that was monochromatic, simple, yet finely made. His back was stiff, even as his legs lazily sprawled under the confines of his desk. While he wore no honors or medals or gaudiness to indicate his station there was power in those eyes. Power, and a certain cold toughness that was compliments of being all but raised by the Turks. If eyes were the windows of the soul than the young man's gaze was forever shuttered and sealed with ice. Rufus was a wonder of his own people, upon reaching adolescence -by Midgarian standards- he laid claim not only to twenty and one years of life but a position of pure power and heady responsibility. Yet, instead of a cocksure manner appropriate to his station and age he was reserved, quiet, withdrawn among his associates. Exercising his power in small ways, the heir seemed content to control things from behind the scenes.

Earlier that evening there had been two rituals... One was a forum to acknowledge his ascendance as Vice President, the other a plodding ceremony to say that he was worth to be an adult due to intellectual accomplishment. Both ceremonies had been punctual, proper, and utterly false. Upon cutting free from the mass of humanity entitled by one he'd been escorted to the other. Then, social obligation obliged the heir had disappeared, taking the familiar paths up a poorly illuminated stairway at a dignified trot. He'd started the walk alone, even managed to hike up three floors before being intercepted by his guard. Once intercepted he'd been escorted for the rest of the walk, and upon finding sanctuary he'd found two Turks at ease in his private office.

From farce to present, from pomp to truth...

The sight of two Turks in an office, armed to the teeth, and -as always- wrapped in an aura of somber stillness would have triggered nightmares in any Shinra associate but this one. No nightmares were needed, no threats exchanged, only nods of greeting. Staple changing from confection to meat, Rufus was amused and amazed that his request given that morning over the phone had seen completion. Such bloody bitter fruit had been harvested, but like meat, truth didn't come cheaply.

"As always, I appreciate your efforts, their promptness, and thoroughness." Rufus had confided, setting the most sensitive of the papers within their folder.

"And thoughtfulness," Rude had chimed in.

On eyebrow rose to convey surprise, but only amusement flavored his tone.

"Pardon?"

"Your poison, Mr. President," Thin lips curling into a smile too warm for that face. It seemed as if the face that held the gesture. Pride warmed slanted eyes might melt under such undue warmth, and as if fearing that fate all undue expression faded into a placid mask. "-is Crimson Canyon, I believe?"

"Why yes, Mr. Turk." Lips curling with real warmth, the Vice President smiled. "it is."

Skin too dark to betray a flush yet to light to be true ebony, the lesser Turk bared white teeth in a approximation of a smile. "And for those of us with less sophisticated tastes... there's whisky, rum, and booze."

"And sake," The slant eyed Turk added with a lean grin. "Which is of course, the most sophisticated drink of all."

"Whatever Tseng," Rufus chuckled. "Just pass me a glass already."


	2. Counting Smiles

A Facade of Glass

Counting Smiles

Written to "Price of Freedom". I find it a good Aerith/Tseng piece... but not in the couple sense that most people would think. I'm playing Crisis Core right now on, and it got me thinking... This story is going to be on the "slow update" listing -I'm working on another long piece at the moment- but I haven't forgotten about it entirely. So here's the "official" first chapter.

Everyone wore shrouds. Shrouds and veils, cloaks and facades woven of half truths and perception. Some wore in truth true masks, masks of steel, masks of stone… others though wove the fabric of their façade until flesh and mask were one.

It was then and only then that the masks became true that they then became impossible to crack. To those rare individuals the light of her smile and the warmth of her laugh would fall short of its intent. Still she smiled at those masked and not, smiled into façade and face until it seemed her lips were weary from all the smiles and her voice was worn down to a harsh croak all her laughter.

"It's been a while Aerith."

"Aeris." She corrected gently. She didn't rise from her work, but carried on. Her hands were fondly clasping the earth and trailing up green stems. From trail to tilt, she coaxed the color tipped buds towards the thin smear of gold that penetrated past the plates and the smog to her little haven amongst the squalor.

"Of course," His voice was soft, with a caress of accent to it.

Like everyone else he wore a shroud and he wasn't even aware of it. The cloth was so long he could twine it around and around his form with the merest reminiscence, and it was thick, so thick that it could ward against any chill. It was vibrant too, but not in such a way others would think of the word. Most people thought "vibrant" and saw images of rainbows and sun drenched, but the sober hues of her visitor's veil had nothing of light to them. The predominant color was grey, slate grey, smog grey, steel grey, there were a hundred, thousand, variations. Occasionally there was a highlight, an occasional streak of black, the rare -yet vivid- splatter of red. He smelled like rust but not quite, and never mind if he was wearing cologne or still seeped with the caress of incense from the Leviathan's Temple, he smelled like fresh rust.

And he wore red. Every morning he put on red gloves without being aware of it.

That's what she had thought the first time she'd met him, and she thought it even now. Giving the earth a final pat -a tender motion filled with an unspoken promise- she rose and turned. At her motion the folds of her pink dress twirled around her knees.

"Nice dress." He murmured. His black eyes warm as he studied her with something too soft to be mere "professionalism".

"It's new; Mother gave it to me for my birthday."

"Happy belated birthday then," His announcement -though belated- was marked with a spontaneous flash of affection and she crowed with delight at the sight of it.

"And that makes it five!" She informed him.

"Five?" The slight smile fled; in its place was a particular placidity, a stillness that took the place of say... a gape of surprise for anyone else.

"Five times I've gotten you to smile." She chirped, proudly showing off the appropriate number of fingers to show that five in force.

"And when," he raised an eyebrow to convey some secret emotion. His mask was in place, held against his flesh with such vigor the edges bled a little. "-did you start counting?"

"Ohh a little while back..." She began, her tone -like her eyes- going deliberately vague.

"Aerith." He mock growled, baring his teeth just a little to show his annoyance. To that she folded. The expression was ringed round by blood; he couldn't see the blood much less guess the edge of ferocity his teasing was given due to it.

"You were seven, I think." She confided.

"Seven?" He countered, one eyebrow rising to convey his surprise.

"When we met you were seven, maybe eight. You never really count your birthdays, do you?"

"I've never bothered." Tseng shrugged. "So, you've been counting since then?"

Yep," Still smiling, she folded her hands behind her back and walked towards him. He followed her, with his eyes. She passed him by, aware of that though he didn't move he studied her from the corner of his eyes.

"Any letters for me today? Or rather, any letters for me to deliver?" He amended himself with a slight twitch to his lips that wasn't quite humane enough to be considered a smile.

"Nope."

"So, you've given up then?"

"Nope."

Lifting his gaze so he better studied the sunlight streaming through the roof the Turk let out a quiet laugh.

"You're impossible."

"How's work been?" The brunette asked, turning in her heel. Pink chased pink and the feminine color twirled around her knees at the motion.

"Work's work."

And unknowingly the Turk's laconic response set the trail of his life into vibrant motion. Grey chased grey, as images of child and half grown men all sporting the same red-blonde hair moved around him. His eyes grew distant, almost seeming to see what she saw... then he shook his head and the pictures around him dimmed.

"That's _real_ informative." The girl huffed, setting her hands on her hips and leaning forward to better glare at her "protector's" back.

"And your views," Tseng murmured, acting as if he hadn't heard. "Those radical views you cherish so... Have you finally come to see the light of reason? Will you allow me to take you with me to join the company?"

"No."

"Well then, we are once again at an impasse."

"Like always," Aerith admitted, not letter her hands fall from her hips or her scowl to slip one bit.

The effect was spoiled since the Wutia Turk didn't bother to turn around. When she finally realized that he wasn't going to turn around Aerith heaved a sigh and let her hands drop.

"You're impossible." She sighed.

"No, merely _informative,_" Tseng concluded his weak joke with a quiet chuckle. Letting his gaze drift down he turned and it seemed he had reclaimed the smile from before. Extending a hand he offered it to her. "Can a gentleman of dubious repute walk you home?"

"Only if he's off the clock."

"I'm on my lunch break, actually, which is more or less the same thing."

She walked towards him, he towards her, and they met halfway. Arm in arm they began their leisurely walk out of the chapel and to the slums.

At the oak doors -graffiti scarred and bullet riddled, but oak all the same and still standing besides- leading to the world beyond the Wutia Turk hesitated.

"Your mother, she is not home, is she?"

"Head still hurting form the pan applied to it last month?" Aerith asked sweetly.

"I would not dishonor your family with slander... but your mother mistrusts my motives a great deal."

"I'll protect you." Aerith promised, her eyes twinkling with a very impish expression poorly suited to an "angel". "And I won't tell Elena you're walking me home. She'd take it worse than mother."

He'd known her through the long march of years. Even before he was a rookie Turk he'd known her, and therefore was used to her oddities and acute observations... but still...

"I've never mentioned Elena to you before." He noted.

"You never tell me about your work." She countered.

To that he folded, and companionable silence descended and filled the whole walk to Aerith's home.


	3. Is it Vacation yet

A Façade of Glass 

Is it Vacation Yet?

_Juanaxu: Actually, I can't make up my mind on the title. Bad forum, I know, but we all have these little indecisive spats from time to time._

_To my readers,_

_Hey guys, it's been a while since my last update, but I've been under the weather. I'm still a bit ill, but I've kicked it off enough to be able to update now, so update I shall. As always, thanks for reading, and for your patience with my pace._

The merest sighting of the brush inspired instant hostility. Ears were slicked back, fangs were bared, and with a threatening crack the panther-hound's tentacle slashed through the air to leave a small scar on the steel floor. The brush holder in question only smirked, training making him confident to the point of hubris. Little did the black clad man know that the brush held in any hand save Master's triggered an "I will kill you all" reaction, and that reaction was carried through to the point that it became a often back upped threat.

Despite the open show of murderous intent the brush wielder approached, lips still curled in a "damn you all" smile.

To that smirk blue eyes thinned and a black tongue rasped over long yellowing fangs.

"Here kitty kitty…"

The Turk purred, brush in one hand he shook out his sleeve to reveal the other. In it was a small knife; its edge gleamed as if it had been oiled.

"Nice kitty, good kitty cat…"

To that insult the panther-hound roared.

XXX

"The men Heidegger sent as an escort called in sick." Rufus reported to the black plastic phone that lay by his side. The phone was open, its screen as black as it's covering, and only the flashing green button on its side told him that the connection held true.

"A great shame." Came the familiar, if static marred, voice on the other line.

Laying on his back, clad in nothing more than a pair of shorts and sandals, Rufus considered the daunting blue sky above. It wasn't as monochromatic as the smoke tinged sky of the upper plate, and sea tainted air had the oddest scent to it. Not one breath he drew held even a whiff of bitterness, and he'd drawn on the smoke clogged air for so long that its cleaner state was alien. He drew in each breath gingerly. It wasn't as harsh or cutting as the ice choked miasma that hung over the Permafrost area, and without the flavoring of bitter chemicals it just felt _wrong._

And the water, crystal clear and served with a side of lemon, didn't taste right either. There wasn't the familiar tang of cleaning chemicals that he was used to. Despite these oddities, and the too bright sun light, he didn't complain. No one around him would understand. So like normal he kept his mouth shut and watched.

"You should really reprimand him." Rufus suggested, with only the slightest of frowns. Not only was the sunlight too bright, it made his head ache after staring at it too long. Finally, with a grimace, he conceded that he'd just have to wear _them_. Rufus reached into his short pockets and pulled out a slim plastic case. One flick of the tiny switch on the tube-like receptacles side and the contents fell into his hands. Lifting the revealed item up he unfolded it, then after a second of considering the black tinted glass he sighed and set the shades over his eyes.

"If he's one of Heidegger's men..."

"Nothing overt mind you, don't do anything that would go down in the paperwork... but his enthusiasm for grooming Dark Nation should be noted if nothing else." Leaning back in the plastic folding chair Rufus stretched his hands over his head and yawned. The alien blue was now sheathed in a familiar blackish cast. He smiled at that, and at the fact that his headache instantly lessoned. "There was a knife on him," Rufus continued in a quiet tone, "one smeared with the residue a Bio Materia leaves behind."

Silence met the vice president's statement, a grim quiet marred with the hiss and snap of static.

"Consider it on the boards."

"Thank you Tseng. Oh, and tell Rude thanks for the vacationing gift." Reaching up with a hand Rufus nudged the bridge of his nose, setting the "gift" in a more centered position. "They're working out just fine."

Once again silence met the vice president's words. Rufus smiled into that silence and at last let out a warm laugh.

"Well I better get going. Cassie's is going to be back from her yoga class soon and I don't want to act like I'm working on my off time. If she finds out I've been calling anyone from the company I'll never hear the end of it."

That innocent comment prompted a sigh, and to that sound Rufus tensed. He knew that tone of voice all too well, after all he'd been listening to it since he was about nine.

"I still do not understand why you so vehemently refused to have Cissnei escort you for this outing." Tseng began; his opening was delivered in a bland tone.

"Because Cissnei's a Turk," Rufus growled. "And I'm _not_ taking a Turk with me on vacation. I think that I deserve _some_ privacy."

"But... a civilian?" The Turk's voice was pained, with a breath of rebuke licking about the edges.

"She's also older than me, by about five years." The heir pointed out.

"Older women are more accepting and less giddy." Came the anticipated proverb laden reply.

"Cass is perfectly well grounded, thank you very much."

"She has absolutely no skills in self defense."

"Most Continental women don't." Rufus admitted with a shrug. Since he was lying on his back the move made the plastic bands of the deck chair rub against his shoulders. "And I think it's a novelty that she can't. It puts me in the place of protector for once."

"Still..."

A thought came to Rufus, a disturbing one. He turned to face the black phone with its flickering green button, his eyes thinned with a sudden suspicion.

"Cissnei's on leave, isn't she?"

"Yes."

The reply came a little to fast; the tone was a tad _too_ indifferent. A sudden chill threaded the heir's spine.

"Where did you deploy her?" Rufus snapped.

"Costa Del Sol."

This side of the ship was empty. It didn't have the benefits of blaring music and the on board pool with its attendant guards that the rest of the passengers enjoyed. That was the reason Rufus had picked it. For the peace and quiet and it's relative seclusion. It _was_ by the captain's quarters however. That way if something _did_ happen he might overhear something and be able to get clear of an oncoming disaster. Turk trained logic aside, it _was_ quiet _and_ sun drenched, and those two phenomenons _were _the prime requisites of getting a tan.

When the slap of sandal against wood reached his ears the Shinra jerked his head up and turned to glare at his violator of his solitude. Grimly he pulled the shades up to better glare at his visitor.

"Hello Mr. Vice President." Cissnei of the Turk's greeted him with her ever bright and cheery smile.

"Tseng!" Rufus snarled, twisting so he could better face the phone. The green light was out, either the connection had conveniently just given out or someone had wisely decided to hang up.

"Ruffy-sama."

Slipping out from behind the captain's quarters Cassie Knealworth smiled, then seeing his expression, the unfolded phone, and the Turk in her pale tan swimsuit a great deal of cheer left the young woman's expression.

"Cissnei, whatever are you doing here?" Cassie murmured. There was a glint of steel in her dark brown eyes.

"I'm on the job actually; Tseng thought that it would be best that someone should keep an eye on the Vice President." Cissnei replied, her eyes hardening a bit around the edges. "Its kind of light duty, so I thought I'd go without the normal Turk uniform and blend in."

Setting both his palms against his tightly closed eyes, Rufus Shinra tried to will the scene into the status of a mere nightmare. But the chilly silence all around him told the heir the grim truth. This was no dream, and there was going to be an ironically timed yet divinely sent wake up call.


	4. Love and the Turks

Glass Facade

Glass Facade

Public Relations

_A/N: Written to Before Crisis' "Black Beat"_

She hung on his arm, a pretty enough ornament. She was part superficial façade, part vanity, and overall she was frail and fragile. Quite the collectable for the connoisseur. Skin bronzed by the artificial light of a local sun tan joint, her hair was an artful artificial, waterfall of red. The tips of it tickled his wrist as she coyly tilter her head to the side and offered the cameraman her most mild of smiles. To that prompt he did as expected, he smiled warmly and nodded, and they stopped for a time, half dazzled by the explosion of light.

Prompted perhaps by the moment he gently turned her, and she went with the motion. No longer the fine ornament, the bronze and red statuette, she faced him, a touch unsure. To that he leaned forward, gifting her with a chaste kiss on the forehead.

They were friends, the gesture said, nothing more than that.

The blaze of light and babble that answered the kiss told them both that the world did not believe it. And the snippets of conversation he caught from the edges of the gathering said that the paparazzi didn't believe in such a thing as a casual caress. Innocence was dead. The emotions and relationships of the rich and famous were to be monitored, publicized, than exploited for the maximum profit.

After a few moments of light and babble she tightened her grip a fraction, and to that gentle squeeze he nodded. She wanted to leave, preferably ten minutes ago. So with a winning smile plastered to his face he waved to the crowds and she took her place as a living ornament once more. There withdraw from the blue carpeted path was the stuff envied by kings.

It was only when they were safely out of view, with the doors closed behind them and two Turk guards manning the thick steel portal -on both sides- that he dropped his "winning smile" and let out a tired sigh.

"It's all so tedious some times." He confided.

"Well you do it to yourself." Cassie pointed out. Tapping one painted nail to her lower lip the young woman looked past him, considering some distant vista. "Would it be cruel of me to say that your little show out there just made it worse?"

"Very." He mock growled.

"Well then, it's good I didn't say anything then, isn't it? I'd hate to take a slice in the sadism market, Shinra has a monopoly I hear."

"Shinra _senior_ has that monopoly." He corrected her with a touch of steel to his tone. "I've refrained from playing in the pain market, thank you very much. I'm shooting for a more economic form of tyranny."

She laughed at that, reassuring him once again –in private, besides- that she was no elite man's plaything. She was a full gown woman, two years his senior, and almost as cynical as he.

"How very appropriate." She murmured.

When he raised an eyebrow to mutely enquire for an elaboration she only laughed and took her place at his side once again.

"Your public awaits." She reminded him a sly grin curling her lush lips.

"Let them wait then." Rufus growled, leaning forward he dared another kiss, this one was significantly less chaste than the last.

XXX

They were arguing again. Their exchange wasn't heated enough to be a fight, and it was, he mused, somewhat one sided. He didn't have a problem with his behavior, she did, and was letting him know. Very couple like of her, to lay it out in the open for him like this. Amused, he waited. As always the young Shinra's expression was placid, his blue eyes glinting in the mako fueled light.

"You are such… such a… Turk!" She concluded with a huff, and stomping her foot besides.

"Would you believe its natural inclination?" Rufus countered. When silence met his statement he shrugged. "Cassie, you know I was all but raised by Tseng. I've told you that before. Some of my "Turk"ness is due to the fact that Tseng's been by my side since I was ten."

He leaned against the window as he talked, addressing that incomplete dark that was common outside his hometown. Unlike Midgar's perpetually cloudy -or rather smoggy- sky here when you looked out, you could see stars. So look up he did, and he also did his best not to shiver as those silver specks seemed to be looking back.

"Oh come on! You're not going to tell me that you were raised by your guard."

"I was."

"You're an executive... the Vice President to the Shinra company. You're a person, not a Turk."

Her last words hung between them. At last the heart of the matter was laid bare, and like all hearts it bleeds. The silence that followed Cassie's outburst was absolute. He half expected a hot response to tumble past his lips, but he was too well trained to give into first impulse. Words built on his tongue, he tasted them, their texture was rough, the vehemence behind them made for a thick, gummy, sauce... He swallowed them down without a wince, then all bemused at his own disinterest, he lifted a hand he set it against the thin sheet of glass.

It didn't flex at the pressure of his digits, but it did shiver, just a little bit.

"I didn't mean..."

"Of course you did. You meant exactly what you said, and you meant everything you said before that. I am distant, unimpassioned, and cold. You weren't lying, don't demean yourself by taking it all back now because the truth is hard. Everyone's lied to me before this... But then I suppose everyone lies to themselves and to each other every day of their lives. I find your honesty refreshing, so when you said my interest in you was calculated, you were right. I like your honesty. It makes you a bit rude from time to time but it's refreshing." He smirked, unable to help himself it seemed. "To beat the phrase to death... to be honest I'm sick and tired of everyone being so nice to me. They all act like I'm going to give them something if they are."

He let his hand slide down, studying his own black tinged reflection. Black tinted glass, bullet proof and materia reinforced so that sound -and dialogue- wouldn't be compromised once it was sealed shut. Overall it was very efficient, and the Turk part of him heartily approved.

Then, as if in silent rebuke his mind provided him reminisce. He recalled another time, a simpler time. Where he'd wandered inside a large tent and had been confronted by his own reflection from a hundred places at once.

"So... it was all calculated... you don't care..."

"I never said that." He protested quietly.

He didn't bother to look back. It was then, in the violate silence that followed his own protest, that he understood. They'd come to the make or break part of this talk, which meant that this was the make or break moment of this relationship. Hard on the heels of realization was the startling epiphany that he actually cared how this panned out. He'd had girl friends before this, empty headed things that he'd acquired and left behind at whim. Some had known his games and played along, others were too simple to catch onto his intent and had been thoroughly crushed at game's end.

Cassie was an interesting mix of corporate raised ruthlessness and inexperience born from naiveté. She could banter with the elite cut throats that served as a crown to the Shinra's staff and she could in turn amaze and amuse him with her childlike wonder.

"You never say _anything_."

"Over trained, I guess."

"You're _not_ a Turk, I am _not_ going out with a Turk."

"Not a certified one." He agreed with a bitter little smile.

"Not _any_ kind of Turk."

To that he was quiet for a long long time, and then he turned to face her, his back to the glass.

"It's not like they're pure evil, Cassie. They just do a job that no one else wants to think about. They're nosy," He continued with a small smile, thinking about his own childhood and its lack of secrets. "Nosy busybodies, and guards, and sometimes they do bad things, but they're people."

Her expression was pained. She was taking it all wrong, misunderstanding everything. But even for the sake of peace, for stability, he wouldn't lie to her.

"I won't denounce the Turks, not now, not ever. I owe them too much to do that." And as her expression crumbled, along with her composure, he sighed. "Don't make me choose between you or them because you're scared. You already know what my answer's going to be."

XXX

"It's always hard." Cissnie admitted with a sigh. "I had a boyfriend outside the organization. It... didn't end well."

She'd met up with him after the fight. Flirting from shadows to shadows she'd hung back, trailing him and taking his mood by observing his manner. Like always, she worked in perfect silence. The white bathrobe and tan bathing suit underneath dispelled all her attempts at stealth, and her garb alone told him what her posture and shadow lingering did not. She wasn't seriously trying to go after him, she merely was fulfilling the observational aspect of surveillance duty.

When he stopped his restless pacing, taking that familiar unpopulated span behind the captian's cabin she had joined him. Not hovering about him as Cassie liked to do, but lingering, out of touch, allowing only her eyes to linger on him.

"Bad?" He queried.

And despite the fact it was a warm spring evening, Cissnie shivered and held herself tight.

"You can't imagine."

"Technically I'm not a Turk." Rufus protested. He tightened his grip on the ship's rail. The metal bar was still warm even though the sun had set an hour and a half ago.

"Technicalities aren't really that important." Cissnie reminded him, "They don't stop bullets, you can't spend them, and they're easily ignored."

He snorted, almost smiled despite the pain. "How typically Turk." He noted, instead.

"I know you were thinking the same thing." The auburn haired Turk countered.

"Maybe, maybe not."

Unlike Cassie, Cissnie didn't come forward and take his hand. There was no offer to listen or request to "talk about it". The young Turk stood distant and alert, every inch the professonal despite her unprofessional attire. Shaking his head Rufus turned from her, stared out into the night blackened waters.

"You know Tseng's been trying to... you know."

"You're not my type. I'm also _not_ like Elena. I care who I sleep with and I won't sleep with someone just to keep my job."

"Thanks... I think." Rufus growled, glowering at the black, placid, waters.

"It's not you personally." Cissnei hastened to insure the young heir. "I just don't like businessmen."

"You're just digging yourself in deeper, you know." Rufus pointed out.

"Probably." With a shrug Cissnie took Rufus' half hearted threat as an invitation. She joined him, standing so close that he could have leaned a bit and their shoulders would have touched. Setting her small, smooth, hands over the rail she amused herself with studying the sea. Her hands clenched and unclenched the rail. The move was like a pantherhound's. Her manicured nails mimed the motions of Nation's paws in a nervous kind of kneading.

"What was his name, the guy you fell for?"

"Zack, he was in SOLDIER, first class." A sad smile touched her full lips. "Nice, open, spontaneous, earthy, kind of guy. He always used to say "I'll make it to first, just wait" then when he made it he died right after. I never.. did get to congratulate him on his promotion, Reno and Rude were going to take him bar hopping, then we were supposed to go see LOVELESS..."

Shaking her head the young Turk let out a wistful sigh. Silence fell between Turk and heir, finally Rufus asked what he had meant to ask.

"What's the name of... of the girl Tseng fell for?"

"Aerith Gains-something-or-other."

"And what happened to her?" When silence met his question, the young Shinra clarified. "How did she die?"

"She isn't dead yet." Cissnie admitted, her gaze locked on the distant horizon, her tone deceptively light. "But I heard that Tseng was given orders to gather her up. Hojo wants her for something."

"Hojo?" Rufus asked in a sick voice.

"I understand that Reno will probably be given orders to arrange an accident on the way. Something quick and painless."

Despite his being one technicality short of a Turk, Rufus Shinra shivered at Cissnie's bright tone.


	5. FinalDraft Untitled 5

The Glass Façade

The Glass Façade

_A/N: Written to __Before Crisis' "Theme of Elfe"_

_Hey Juanaxu, got a new chapter for you. Tell me what you think and if there are any spots for improvement. BTW, if there are other errors -not spelling related- could you please point them out to me so I can make improvements? KS_

It was a matter of numbers really. Numbers, statistics, information. Layered before him, window overlaying window, was all the information of the modern world. Everything was hung in the center, at the heart of one glass casing. Hands playing a clicked melody, he opened and closed sheets, scanning the contents of –if printed- what would have been a pile of paperwork as tall as he was.

It took three weeks. He read the pile from front to back, inside and out, and had it memorized in that short span. Afterwards, there were no awards, no grading system in place to confirm his knowledge, and no handy paper bound test to gauge his grasping. Merely a dull headache, and a dose of medicine to take the edge off the pounding inside his skull.

There wasn't even satisfaction these days, to take the edge off. Only a chill drink of water -too clean and pure to be real- and a gritty aftertaste from the pill.

"Not bad, thorough." He complimented his research team with a text via his cell phone.

The response was as equally laconic and delivered through the same soulless methods.

"Satisfactory."

Unlike some of his peers -and most of his age group- he was satisfied with only a few words in his text exchanges. The person on the other line must have felt the same, because after that there were no more texts, nor were there any calls.

Alone, with only his bitterness and grit on his tongue he lounged. Indulging in the pastime of getting a tan and idly wondering if the red sensitiveness of his skin was a bad sign. Good or bad though he lay on a towel, sipping purified water from a plastic bottle. His eyes -made black in the reflection of the shades- slid half closed as his mind drifted. Aloof yet not alone -Cissnei was too much a professional for that- he watched the loungers and the swimmers frolic. Occasionally his gaze would drift on the more scantily clad, and amused smile would touch his lips, but he never bothered to move, bothered to rise. After all his work thus far, Rufus decided that he'd earned a few hours of sloth. The fact that he had been in the sun for over an hour made the event novel, and the heart of a good vacation was how many novelties one could jam into it.

Novelties made good conversation tidbits and were the heart of small talk. With a sigh he realized that small talk was going to be his primary job upon returning. He have to have a pleasant little screen of insignificant details set in place, to keep the compliant placid.

"Mr. Vice President."

Turning his head he considered the woman who approached, not bothering to dredge up a smile for her. Between them were only the thin ties of professionalism, nothing more, nothing less.

"Yes, Cissnei?"

"You're burning, sir."

To that he lifted his head, a sarcastic response on the tip of his tongue. Rufus was surprised how much it hurt to even lift his head, to say nothing of the agony the half roll he pulled to better face her caused.

"You're as red as a tomato." The Turk informed him, something like a smile touching her lips. "And you're getting redder." Tilting her head to the side the auburn haired Turk considered him with a passable fake innocence. "I believe you're suffering from sunburn, sir." She informed him brightly.

"Wha-"

"Sunburn, the name says it all if you really think about it."

His eyes thinned to slits as he glared up at her, not impressed she looked down on him. Their gazes still locked he closed the laptop with a quick flick of his hand.

"I believe, Ms. Cissnei, that you can find something better to do than watch me. Actually, as a matter of fact, I'd recommend you start doing something besides "observational duty" right now."

Her answering silence was chilly, but Rufus wasn't one to be shaken by a Turk. Finally, she shrugged, mutely proclaiming her indifference to it all then gesture done she left him to his burning.

X

Her fingers typed, clicking and clacking upon the board until they ached. Ignoring the mild pain she pressed on, continued her fact checking and analysis until her eyes were red and the pain graduated from aching to agony.

It was only when her fingers cramped that she gave in and went for a coffee break.

On her return she sank into the seat with a sigh, a half full Styrofoam cup of caffeine laced liquid in hand. Setting her repast aside she flexed her throbbing fingers, lifted them to better consider their state in the green tinted mako born light. The tips were dark, sensitive, but not bleeding. She'd go on for a little longer, send in her report, and then call it a day.

Dressed in favorite color dark -bruise- blue, she was an interesting sight. A woman in men's clothes, tie included, high heels excluded. She was more than an oddity, she was unique. One of the last Turks permanently assigned to the Shinra tower, her workspace was actually an abandoned executive office. Roomy, with a view, its last occupant had committed suicide rather than be taken by the SOLDIER flunkies that had stormed the place a few months ago.

The death of a coworker was a rather morose way to move up in the world, but in the Turks that was how it normally worked.

Her ears were red, the skin about them puckered and raw. Despite the pain she pulled on the set of padded headphones back over her ears. The 'phones were glossy, black, and oddly enough... round. They'd been dubbed Mickey Ears by one of her more boisterous her co-workers.

"There's the Mouse!" He'd hooted before going out on his latest assignment.

Since she'd been listening to some rather vital -if dated- reports on the headset she wasn't able to hear. Reno, ever considerate, had exaggerated each word, hollering them in her face at the top of his lungs. Elena's response had been a steely glare, the lifting of a hand, and the baring of one specific finger.

Howling with laughter Reno had to be dragged out of Elena's office. Since the Turk's didn't bother with security and Elena was tied up with the computer the young red head had been evicted by one of their own. Unfortunately for Reno the nearest Turk was Tseng. Black eyes flashing the older Turk had stormed out of his office and into hers, snagging his young peer by the scruff, the head of the "research and information" department threw Reno outside.

There was no sound of shattering glass to tell Elena that Reno had finally been defenestrated. A shame that. Leaning back she took her half full cup of coffee in hand and went back to work.


	6. Pillars of Heaven

GF6

GF6

The Glass Façade

The pillars of heaven

_To my readers, _

_This was going to be the ending of the last chapter… either that or the opening of the next. After trying to insert it in both places I decided I liked it as it was, by itself. So, I offer a final flash update for the night. _

_Kasan Soulblade_

Arms clasped behind his back he watched. Face tilted to better contemplate heaven, the Turk's black eyes stared at the steel grey sky. Behind him, around him, pressing down was a silence and darkening shadows. While most would have found the absolute quiet oppressive the observer found it blessedly familiar.

Below reigned an artificial night was settling. False stars –all tinted a haunted green- burst into life as light switches were set to "on". He watched the birth of the false night sky below. Such artifice was prompted by the lengthening shadows of the colossus. For even most delicate of glass structures was reinforced by steel... and steel left shadows.

Alone in the dark and the silence he contemplated the matter of degrees.

Eighty five degrees had been the day's high. No wisps of white had violated the skies. Cloudless, pristine in its metallic glory, it had been a beautiful day on the upper plate.

Outside Midgar's metallic skies, the heavens were blue and the sun was etching the world with gold. Eighty five degrees had been the day's high in Costa Del Sol, now, with the sun beginning it's descent in Midgar –steel deepening becoming onyx- the sun would begin it's sluggish descent into the sea on another distant horizon. Wavelets would be caressed in red, and the world would seem to bleed in an hour and a half's time, and from bleeding it would fade into a black oblivion.

Arms clasped behind his back he turned to face the north quadrant. A mountain of synthetic cast filled was reflected in the black, jaded, depths of his eyes. Green fire spewed from the reactor's gapping maw and orange cinders chased themselves in a red tinged haze. As night continued to claim the whole horizon that red haze would become a writhing mass. Illusion would be made solid by the stark contrast. Enhanced by a monochromatic background the cinders would become writhing phoenixes in flight and the pockets of green would become a solid sheet of emerald. Pillars really... pillars tall enough to up hold heaven.

A heaven of steel, a heaven of stone, crafted of poison born fumes.

Such were the glories of the Divine.

He let his hands fall, drift to his side. The right lingered on the edge of his pant pocket. Calloused fingers idly danced on that edge. It wasn't late, not even sunset. Dinner at Costa Del Sol was a few hours off. He _could_ dare one last call before the raid began. Just one quick talk, his mind murmured, even as his fingers began their decent. His motives were inspired by professionalism. Checking up on his people was his job; both Cissnei and Rufus were under his jurisdiction...

Checking the impulse he pulled his hand away. Then, clasping the offending appendage behind his back, he returned to his vigil of this steel mountain of man's making... like most of Shinra it was crowned and wreathed with hells finest fires.

And to that observation, Tseng of the Turks smiled.


	7. Twelve Forty

The Glass Façade

Chapter 7

_To my readers,_

_Yeah, I'm putting a chapter tally, mainly to help my beta keep tabs on what needs editing and what doesn't. Also, as a head's up, I was able to snag a half hour computer today. So chapter's 4 through 6 have been edited. I originally had a lighter ending set up, where Tseng and Rufus banter... but on second thought I nixed it. Rufus is supposed to be mature in this installment, and while bantering isn't wholly in the realms of children it just didn't really fit. Ah well... As always, enjoy the newest installment. Written to "Dear Mr. President," by Pink. KS._

Twelve forty.

At exactly twelve forty am civilian time the phone rang. The device continued its shrill whinnies untended until his desk was cleared of the folders he'd been tending. Only when each segment was neatly stacked, sorted, and stored, did he bother to answer.

As he picked up the device and flipped it open with one hand his other was pulling on the edge of the sole folder he'd left on the center of his desk. Made of steel, information coded and encrypted so that it would only respond to his DNA signature.

Amazing that; amazing and amusing. His death and cremation would make hundreds of classified files inaccessible; his death could bring the destruction of the company from the inside out.

Perhaps, that was why Rufus had insisted on Tseng carrying out the fingerprint and retina scans… Setting his fingers on the smooth steel edge Tseng felt the file go warm at his touch. Mako hummed to life, bringing the bound steel and glass plates to sullen life, the skin of his fingers tingled… And green tinted images flickered into being, his voice speaking one specific word brought up the appropriate information.

It was then, and only then, appropriately armed with information and trained in deceit, did he put the caller through.

To say the wait did little to improve the caller's humor would have been the grossest of hyperboles.

"What the hell is going on out there?"

Not bothering to glance over his shoulder, Tseng instead considered the red light streaming over his desk and on his hands. It was a flickering kind of light, a familiar, unsteady, crimson. Not liquid though, he noted as he flexed his fingers. Despite the motion his hands remained red, from the wrist on down.

"Do you know how much Gil I've lost?" Thundered the President.

Shaking his head at the inanity, Tseng looked down. Four familiar faced looked up, considering him with eyes born of mako with uncaring expressions of the blissfully oblivious. The rant continued for sometime, and his right ear began to ache from the volume of the President's howls.

"Kill him..." The President hissed.

"Pardon?" Tseng's attention had been wandering once it became evident he wasn't going to be asked for input. The report was clearly going to be unread. It hummed under his fingers and the sensation made his skin crawl.

"The idiot who ensured me that reactor one was secure. I want him dead."

Shaking his head at the inanity of it all, Tseng cleared his throat, daring something to mild to be a protest.

"About the terrorists..."

"I have SOLDIER on it."

The tone made it clear how obsolete Alex Shinra considered his Turks. Once upon a time it would be the Turks who would have lead the search, carried out the interrogations, and handled the media control. Now, it seemed, SOLDIER would be doing all that. Checking an annoyed sigh, Tseng leaned back into his chair. In the silence that followed the President's announcement Tseng watched the red tinted shadows chase each other across the steel ceiling.

"I'll see to the hit personally sir." Tseng assured the President, not bothering to lower his gaze.

Under his hand the faces of Barret Wallace and his accomplices remained in stasis, untouched and unconcerned by the conversation about them. Without his hands on the folder the mako image dimmed. In a moment the twin "pages" would be little more than circuitry sandwiched between thin sheets of polished glass.

"Do your job in such a way that no one can point any fingers at me." Alex Shinra ordered.

Clenching his hands, Tseng imagined them around a thick neck. The "sir" that fell past his lips was placid enough, though.

"Public image, you understand. Defenestration." The President ordered briskly. "After such a tragedy I think Lazard's replacement would be feeling rather guilty, don't you?"

There were holes in that plan, gapping ones. But Tseng didn't say a word. And when the silence was not filled with congratulatory words and sycophantic praise the President snarled something unflattering about half Wutia bastards and hung up.

To that Tseng winced, pulling the phone away from his ear.

The hang up's tone was a shrill screech, and the sound echoed in his head for some time.

X

Broom in hand he meticulously swept up the remains of his closing shift's final chore. It was a tedious task, one made more so by the fact that he had to avoid being seen by the company's security cameras whilst working. Finally, when the incriminating part of the mess was cleaned up he took the broom and mop in hand and departed. Tools of cleansing stacked and stored he made his way down to the thirty sixth floor, where he belonged.

It was on that descent that his phone began to ring. Checking a sigh he reached into his pocket, flipped it open and set it against his less abused left ear.

"The media's having a field day, you know."

"Normally, doesn't one begin the conversation with a salutation, for example... "Hello, how are you?" and what not?" The Turk queered.

Silence followed that, then a rueful laugh.

"How is your vacation going, sir?" Tseng continued, not bothering to slow his descent.

"Passable." A hiss of pain carried over the line. "Too much sun though."

"You've been in Midgar too long."

"Criticism, Tseng?"

"It's allowed." The Turk countered.

To his rebuttal came a speculative silence. Finally, "I'd like a report, a detailed one. I think I can safely assume the attack was AVALANCHE based."

"Give me a few hours, sir. Reno and Rude are working on some fact checking. I'll have the whole report in your inbox before noon comes to Costa Del Sol."

"I'm holding you to that, Tseng." Rufus ordered. "Get me that information, all of it."

"Of course sir. The Turks are at your disposal." Tseng promised his vice president, pleased. At least his report would be read by someone with the mentality to get through the whole of it without flinching.

"I was counting on that." Rufus Shinra noted.


	8. The Visitor

The Glass Façade

Chapter 8

The Visitor

In less than three days names were given to the nameless, faces and photos provided, and histories were completed. Once mere notes in the Turk's most confident of files the top secret was now common place. Forbidden images were the stuffing's of beige folders, and those folders were in the hands of every executive in the building.

Those papers were distributed contrary to the head of the executive branches' orders.

The President ranted and raved, threatened pay cuts and executions. Heads would roll he swore, but his threats were cut short by one crisp email. Short and to the point, Rufus merely sent a note to his father, reminding him that Alex Solomon Shinra had advocated his right to hold jurisdiction over the Turks during the upheaval a few months back. The right to punish and reward the Turks was Rufus' department now, and Rufus would consider the actions of the Turks with all due seriousness. Judgment would be offered at a later date, once the present crisis to the company had passed.

To say the very least, Alex Shinra was not cordial to his Turks.

In the hands of the confident incompetent the information set a fire to panic. SOLDIER and Turk protection requests went up one hundred and twenty percent overnight. Business was booming, and for once it wasn't of the unsavory trade of murder that the Turks were being called on to carry out. Any honest executive –if that wasn't an oxymoron of sorts- would have cackled in glee. Money was pouring in quantities that made Tseng's head spin. The figures alone made his head ache just by looking at them.

"What am I supposed to do with it all?" He'd protested into the phone. He'd spent the beginning of his ten hour shift going over the sums with the only executive he trusted. Rufus, amused at his Turk's fiscal based outburst countered the Wutia's building panic with unflappable calm.

"Spend it." The heir suggested.

"On _what?_"

"Raises across the board if nothing else." Rufus had suggested with a yawn. Never mind the time in Midgar was seven in the morning, the sun hadn't risen in Costa del Sol just yet. "Vacations, women, weapons, whatever you want just _get_. You're overdue for a raise yourself."

To the suggestion of "women" Tseng had sputtered, dropping his Turk reserve to openly flounder, and to that Rufus barked out a heartless laugh.

"Men panic when they don't have enough money, you're panicking that you have too much." Rufus noted incredulously.

"I…"

"Do you know what time it is here?" Rufus pressed.

To that Tseng fell silent, because he had known… But his "panic" had made him discount the matter of time.

"It is three forty five in the _morning_." Rufus confirmed the time to his Turk with a grim note to his voice. The emphasis on the last word was also violate, indicating that the heir was in an irritable mood.

Clearly the amusement factor of this pre-dawn call was wearing thin.

"My apologies, sir," Tseng conceded to his mistake with the barest of nods.

"Good night, Tseng. I've a busy day tomorrow inspecting a potential excavation site at Costa del Sol. I'll contact you at _my_ convenience, not yours. Don't call me unless something _important_ comes up."

Before the Turk could mouth even one word of protest Rufus hung up. Wincing as the dial tone howled in his ear Tseng sighed and put the phone away.

XXX

Visitors were rare on the Turk floor. Screened, searched, and treated with chill superiority, victims sent to the Turk floor rarely came back a second time. Secretaries of the company –the bravest minxes in the known world- were known to lay documents outside the Turk's door rather than dare the boundary. So paperwork piled, was occasionally gathered, and occasionally burned on the Turk floor. Not even the fearless members of the accounting and budget branch dared enter.

Horror stories ran abound in the company. Stories of Turks coolly killing any who dared crack a quick peak at their file cabinets, stories of torture chambers squirreled away on their floor for the overly inquisitive or aggravating...

But they were just stories.

On the other hand there were also other "dark" tales in the company. Tales of a secret orgy room on the SOLDIER level, of mutants running rampant in the science and bioengineering levels…

Overall the stories were just gross exaggerations, or so assumed the guest. With a sigh he raised his hands, endured the metal detector and emptying of pockets that greeted him when he walked through the door. Never mind his often gossiped about friendship with their superior. Turks on door duty were professionals to their core, and were without a speck of humor.

Despite these determents he smiled and nodded, greeted them both cordially, even as they coldly patted him down. Search complete they nodded him to the waiting room, bade him wait.

So he waited, taking his place on a cold stiff plastic chair. The room was box like, without windows and only holding two doors. The chairs were hard, uncomfortable, and monochromatic. Beyond that there was nothing in the room, to do, read, or watch. Idly kicking at the floor he considered asking the guard over the front door if perhaps there where magazines somewhere to read.

One look into those cold black eyes informed him that there was a certain wisdom in ignorance.

So Reeve Tuesti waited, trying his best not to drum his fingers on his knee in impatience.

XXX

"Visitor."

An odd pronouncement that. Tseng could count on one hand the number of non-Turk visitors had "dropped by" -as the Continentals called it- while he was at work. Curious the Turk raised his gaze from the computer screen for the first time this morning. He'd spent his earliest moments of his shift contemplating numbers, and after such contemplating was done he'd gone back to his secondary job: Research and information assimilation. As of this moment he had been composing a lengthy report on the AVALANCHE terrorists, this one more complete and detailed than the information that had "accidentally" found its way to various desks. Rufus had requested all in confidential information behind the Wallace Project after all, and Tseng wasn't one to short his charge in such a rich commodity that was information.

Amused and annoyed at the interruption Tseng shrunk the document he'd been polishing off into the merest of tabs. One drag and click and it was safely out of sight. Work shelved he considered the younger Turk with unblinking scrutiny. The man's skin was a darker hue than that of Rude's. A true black hue, his eyes were a similar color, and he was so thin as to be emaciated. Considering his hue and the ever so slight twang to his words Tseng would have guessed the man's heritage had a touch of Costian background. The Turk was young, a mere twenty one, and further more he was a rookie fresh out of training. For that Tseng held little respect or trust of the man's judgment. But logic prompted him to consider the quiet outside. It was highly unlikely that this "visitor" was some suicidal sabotager.

"Visitor?" Tseng queried. "And does this visitor have a name?"

Face so dark it couldn't turn darker, the Costian Turk's face twitched, only that, but the flash of fury was easy to read. Clearly the man wasn't used to being talked down to, that or the Turk was another blind fool who believed that the slant of a man's eyes indicated that he was subservient.

_Like hell he was._

Holding fast to his facade of unruffled superiority Tseng looked up at the man, not bothering to rise, never mind how his lip ached to curl in a mute snarl of anger. Tseng was a Turk, and indulging in such emotion was pure childishness. He would not set a bad company image out to the world; he would be professional, as always. The moments of their confrontation dragged on, unmarked by the click of a dated time piece or the chirrup of a more modern digital watch. Finally, the younger Turk dropped his gaze, submitting to Tseng's seniority. It went without saying that such submission was only for the time being, that there would be more to come between the two of the.

"A Reeve Tuesti, to see you, sir." The Turk murmured, eyes fixed on the floor.

"You should have said that sooner." Tseng rebuked the man coldly. "Send him in."

With a bob of his head the young Turk slipped out. Taking his pen in hand, Tseng idly twirled the steel pointed writing utensil in his hand as he silently went through the endless files of his mind, searching for the younger Turk's name. Sadly, it took a while. The Turk ranks had swelled to an unseemly mob. Recruits were -as Elena's personal experience could a-test- being rushed through training more often than not. Add to his number the influx of Heidegger's defunct Turks and the company's most recent and vicious bout of politicking... Tseng's list of allies was growing thin, and his knowledge of his own people was becoming more and more obsolete as the politicking slowly but steadily destroyed the Turks Tseng had inherited after his predecessor's "death".

Soon, if things continued as they were, the Turks would be enfolded by SOLDIER. Distinguishable from the military only by their glossy black suits... and maybe even that would be discontinued when the branches were merged.

Frowning and in obvious poor humor... This was the state Reeve Tuesti found his "friend" upon entering, an unsafe proposition for Reeve to say the very least.


	9. Altruism Part One

The Glass façade

Chapter 9

Altruism: Part One

_To my readers,_

_Flash update. Written to "Mark of the Traitor". As a heads up I might have to put this story on hiatus to finish "Faux fur" I'm not too sure just yet. If the event occurs it's not going to be in the immediate future, but I figured a warning should cover that eventuality. Faux and Façade's events should (by my outline at least) converge, but it's only an eventuality that. Still, I figure the warning is only fair after all. As always, pleasant reading._

_Kasan Soulblade_

"I want to help."

Insane those words, a sign of descending madness. The speaker of such insanity was neither Mako enhanced nor Turk trained the only two traits in the world that made the sentiment even marginally plausible.

Regardless though, it was that sentiment that Reeve Tuesti had just expressed, and the genuine feeling behind it had guided this normal man's life.

Leaning back in his chair Tseng considered the speaker, his visitor, in a somber light that was untainted by their marginal motions of friendship.

Reeve was a man of little heroics and of lesser importance, a small man amongst corrupt corporate giants. A practical man ringed round by towering ambitions (The least of those being to send man to the stars) Reeve was content to play with the little things. Tinkering with circuits and AI, and other odd named absurdities, he wandered his department amongst his underlings with no care of seniority or the trappings of rank. Reeve called to him those of like mind, those enchanted by the flow of Mako born electricity through the circuit, and those small minded tinkerers who made toys and computers and other silly things.

To those childish passions Tseng held a great deal of scorn for Reeve Tuesti, but in compensation the man had built –or rather designed- the city that stood around them. For that Reeve had made amends for his unfortunate… frivolous… pursuits.

Smoothing his mustache, a minimal growth of hair that was too long too be a goatee and too well manicured to be anything but fussy, Reeve paced the front of Tseng's office. The man's passion was in such over abundance he couldn't sit still. Tseng checked a sigh at that, the comfortable skein of ceremony that served as a gloss to cover their various philosophic differences was being rubbed away with every quick paced step.

"There has to be something I can do to help." Reeve inanely repeated himself once again. Tseng gritted his teeth as something a bit more potent than a sigh threatened to spill past his lips.

One thing was certain however, "friendship" aside, the Turk was not going to be a victim of some executive's "brainstorm session".

"Mr. Tuesti." The Turk carefully enunciated each syllable, letting his poor humor seep into each word. "I'm rather busy right now…"

His desk was bare, but that didn't mean anything and Reeve should have known that. Instead the man only raised an eyebrow, his mind fixed on the physical truth as it seemed.

Considering it was Tseng's job to make truth favorably align to the whims of his superior and spread about hard proof in such a way the media could use to control the masses… Well, truth, hard proof, and assumptions were dangerous things to bandy about. Nothing was as it seemed, and while the desk was bare it hardly meant that the Turk had idle time on his hands.

"A lot of people were hurt." Reeve said, as if that explained it all. "My department's donated a million gil for the purchase of phoenix downs for those who were... critically injured."

"I got the memo." Tseng explained, nodding his head to the folded lap top that lay on the center of his desk.

The chill tone coupled with the faint hint of asperity served as a blow. The hit took the energy from Reeve's cause, but only from the surface.

The bastard son of two nations took a step back at Tseng's tone. Fear glinted in those Contental brown eyes with thier minimul Wutai slant, but even fear was forsaken in the light of a cause.

"_I_ can help."

Another nod to the portable bit of technology was Tseng's counter, and to that Reeve shook his head.

"Not as a department, as a person." Reeve explained.

Tilting his head to the side, Tseng considered this half-Wutai. The man's conviction was a touch chilling... not intimidating... but it was disturbing on some deep and best untouched level.

"Explain-"

Obviously non-plussed by the Turk's tone, Reeve's face scrunched up in response to his distaste. As a Turk, Tseng was dis-inclined to be swayed to better manners by a small man's displeasure. Still... there was this "friendship" of his to consider. If it got too badly damaged Rufus might become cross.

"-please." Tseng grated out the last word, managing not to gnash his teeth together by the thinest of margins.

Happy to comply Reeve dropped his distaste and all of his reserve.

And despite his best efforts Tseng found himself interested, _very_ interested, by the conversation's end.


	10. Altruism Part Two

The Glass façade

Chapter 10

Altruism: Part two

A toy, it seemed, had been Reeve's newest project, his latest... inovation. Upon being turned on it put on quite the show, prancing, juggling, and pulling off a fluid cartwheel. Despite his best efforts Tseng's lip curled in one corner at the toy played on.

"It's increadably mobile." Tseng admitted, arms clasped behind his back. To his words the play stopped, and he was considered by thin slit eyes. He returned stare for stare, though there were only two creases of thick white fur for the creature's eyes as they were locked in a pose of... a happy scrunch? The eyes seemed styled off of that odd Contentnal-Wutia hybrid cartoon. What had Rufus called it? Anime? Something like that. Reno would have known but Reno was on assignment at the moment, and Tseng didn't bother his people that were on the job unless it was a matter of life or death.

Curiousity just didn't make the cut.

"'Lo there laddie buck!" A gloved paw was extended to top the odd salutation with a shake.

He stiffened at the cratures thick accent, winced back from the volume, and refused even look at -so much as touch- the extended... paw.

"Cait." Reeve's voice had a faint edge to it. "He's a Turk, you don't talk to Turks like that."

"Well 'scuse me!" Crossing his paws over his chest without even a hiss of steel against steal or a creak... or any other stereotypical sign to warn that this creature was a robot... the feline robot looked to Tseng then to Reeve. Shuffling from paw to paw the robot tilted his head, considered Reeve from the corner of its' eye. "How'm I _suppose_ to talk to the big wigs 'gain Reevie?"

Face turning the same color as Scarlet's dress Reeve put a hand over his eyes. To that Tseng broke protocal, at least around the edges, he smiled. Too many times Rufus had done something like that. A quick dance on the razor edge of incivility only to backtrack with a facade of false innocence.

"I am Tseng of the Turks." Tseng informed the... thing. To his words there came a whisper of a whirls and a click from under the feline's skull.

"Oooh, I know you, yer that head Turk, the laddie atop." The paw was extended again, Tseng again, ignored the silent prompt to shake.

"It has a quick load time." Tseng congradulated Reeve.

"Oy, I've got more ram in an inch o' m' head than you people got in your whole bloody heads!"

If it wasn't a computer Tseng would have called that a insult, as it was he turned to Reeve his eyes thining into unamused slits.

"Reeve, if you could stop giving it comands to back talk."

"I _left_ Cait's master remote at home." Reeve speared the device with a glare. To that black look the robot pulled off a passable snicker. "Or rather, he hid it. He hates the master control and I didn't have time to look for it since the car keys went _missing_ as well."

"Ya found yer ID real quick though!" The robot's smile became wide smirk. Light caught the edges of glass that were almost covered by the fur folds. They caught the mako lights and twinkled.

"He's playful." Reeve continued with a wry smile. "A bit of a smart aleck, and he has a very... physical... sense of humor, but he might be able to work for you."

"Reeve was tellin' me about the 'splosion. An' like 'im I wanna help. We talked bout it a long long time, 'bout me working away from home an' all an' I said, "if ye can do it, so can I". Just tell me what ya wanna do an' where to go an' what to snoop on and I'll do it."

Speach concluded the creature puffed out it's small steel chest and looked up at the Turk, a world of optimism in it's voice. A fitting match, Tseng thought keeping his face expressionless, that voice to Reeve's eyes.

"We want to help." Reeve picked up the thread of conversation to counter Tseng's silence. "Both of us."

"All artificial intellegence projects were to be put in Hojo's jusitiction when he took comand of the science department." The Turk pointed out.

To that Reeve flinched and the robot's ears slicked back. The thing's long tail drooped and coiled into a ball without a hint of a hiss or a tell tale creak of a metalic joint.

"I..."

"Your praticipation would have to be subtle. There could be ramifications within the company if this leaks out." The half Wutia continued. "If I say yes, I'm trusting you to keep your mouth shut Tuesti, _both_ mouths."

To Tseng's half rebuke half aceptance Reeve nodded, the picture of quiet obidiance. Cait Sith's wild whoop was topped off with a leaping summersault, and both move and cheer did much to dispell what comfort the Turk took from Reeve's expression.

"Yes, yes, yes!" Little paw pumping the air Caith skipped and jumped around the confines of Reeve's office making more noise than a stadium full of spectators. "I get to work awaaay frooom hoome!" The robot sang.

"He's... he has a very deep work ethic." Reeve mumbled into his beard. The executive's face once more turning red, one hand raised to cover his eyes and stanch a budding headache.

"I noticed," Tseng sighed, today was going to be very long, it wasn't even noon yet. "Almost imediatly."


	11. Chapter 11

The Glass Façade

Chapter

_To my readers, Sorry about taking so long to update, I hit massive writer's block. I finally got an outline thrown together, enough to get to the attack on the Shinra tower, so you can expect some updates from time to time now. Kasan Soulblade_

It was a part of the madness of the elite. A lesser forum and an aggravation besides, but it was a kind of madness. He winced under the assault, wondering how the fat man stood up to such torture with unshakable fortitude.

As if that thought was an omen the car rocked, with him in it. He winced, braced himself for the turn over… Caught in a storm of sorts, he endured the rocking motion of the vehicle settling itself onto a more normal level.

The Fat Man could handle this without cringing, with cold indifference… He told himself for the fiftieth time, well he could too.

He just wished that it was over already.

Despite his internal pep talk Rufus Shinra wasn't having an easy time of it. He was VP to the most powerful company in the world but his ascendance to power had been stormy. The company had made the declaration of his status under the shadow of a terrorist raid on civilian and Shinra company employee alike… and while not accusations had been publicly aired the time frame was so tight that not even the most dense had any illusions that the events were linked.

And unfortunately, in a world of millions there were enough of the smart people around to pick up the grim connections, enough of the smart people to not only make the connection but to inspire the stupid to do so as well. A hail of hands, fisted no doubt, slapped against the sides of the car. The glass, black tinted and material (aka barrier) reinforced, showed a scene of bobbing black. Between the fists and the screams his nerves were fraying, not quite frayed, but most defiantly coming undone around the edges.

"You civilian upbringing is showing sir."

His seat made was a solid soul of a man. Blue clad and brown skinned with black eyes, he was a living monuments to the colors of bruises and tans. Trade mark glasses tucked into a pocket -safer than over the eyes, if the glass around them was going to give under the torrent of blows the Turk would need those eyes, so he kept them open and read like the gun in his lap- Rude of the Turks culd of been a earthen cast image of Dio-Cho's manifestation of tranquility.

"Well excuse me for being human." The Vice President snapped. He winced again, enough so that it showed to even the most untrained eye, when a rather shrill woman screamed.

"Back up's on its way."

Turk issued, not SOLDIER, that backup. After there public falling out Alex Shinra hadn't even bothered with illusions of caring. Alexander Solomon Shinra's son had wanted independence, and so like any proper parent of Midgar her had given his son a complete severance of support. No SOLDIERS for protection, no facilities to run his vice presidency from -Rufus was presently exploiting the hospitality of the Turk's new training building, having taken over a side office besides Tseng's office when he had to have a place to work-, and Rufus would have to earn enough shares in his own company to _make_ presidency after the old man was dead.

Strictly under the chocobo greens bush, and that was impressive considering the massive network of internet free lances, paparazzi, and spies…ahem _news cast reporters_ in the world, there were three _other _vice presidents. And dual horn crap about earning his way in, Alex Shinra had already sliced his company down into thirds between those other three. It was in the bastard's will and final testament.

After the Fat Man had penned his name over the document Rufus had had his chief adviser, Tseng of the Turks, steal that damning document. They didn't dare destroy it, but Rufus knew and hated his father all the more for knowing.

And Tseng had been furious, rightly so considering the continuation of the Turks was now hinged on a hope that was all but ham-strung and gutted before being thrown into the mako reactor. Sick pun that last bit, and the VP smirked despite the macabre slant of his thoughts. Those "rouge" SOLDIERS had almost pulled off their assigned stint in defenestration, had he not been armed with a shot gun and far too much Turk training than was good for his sanity had saved his life.

That and the little fact that Tseng's intelligence unit had cracked the coded orders Heidegger had been sent in time to send his own backup.

"Mako reactor tours shouldn't be this exciting, Rude." Rufus grumbled, rubbing his sore arms.

To that the Turk smiled, the gesture all but brimming with mirth. All of Rude's smiles were genuine, and so rare were almost a reward for a young man who'd been raised in a world of false smiles and a sham of wealth. Rude dind't unbend enough to laugh, however, and that was mildly disappointing. On the other side of the gun though Rude and never laughed and had probably forgotten how a long time ago. At least that was the rap if you believed Rude's ever-smiling, always laughing, partner Reno.

"No sir, they weren't."

The dark man's grammar was incorrect, but the sentence was proper despite being out of all context of tense for the previous dialogue. And for any who knew anything about the Turks that mild toned response held a world full of grim allusions. Not bothering to reinforce his words with the redundant "and the attack never happened" Rude lost his smile and leaned back, gun still gripped in one hand.

The woman screamed again, and for no reason at all Rufus thought of Cassie.

"Funny how my destination was leaked before we even landed." Rufus noted, looking down at his raw red hands. He hadn't shot often enough to develop calluses on his hands, and he wasn't used to using a master material enhanced weapon. The recoil hadn't broken bones –that always happened with rookies when they first learned how to shoot them, and Rufus was anything _but_ a rookie- but the friction of the hastened bullets and recoils had rubbed his hands an almost blood hue. "When you get the chance to contact Tseng, ask him to find out who did so and send my compliments."

"Yes sir."

Another rain of thuds sounded, more fists no doubt, Rufus did his best not to cringe. It wasn't frightening, not the attack, and not even his present confinement… he was used to the former and uncomfortable resigned to the later… rather it was the thudding, that chaotic frenzied beating that set his own adrenaline to a deadly spike. His hands hurt and even through the pain he ached to close them over the receptacle of there present discomfiture. His mouth wanted to open in an order to let the windows slide down and then…

Rufus bit on that impulse, and on his tongue for good measure. Seeing the familiar homicidal gleam Rude checked his watch.

"Ten minutes sir, hold on tight."

The woman screeched again, a chorus of screamers followed her lead. She was probably a student of the planet life following to the letter of that primal doctrine of their shamanistic religion that if the planet screamed so would her children.

"Make if five." Rufus hissed, teeth and fingers clenched so tight that it seemed as if both were in competition to see what snapped first, the VP's molars or the shotgun's grip.


	12. cahpter 12

The Glass Façade

Chapter 12

To my readers, A flash update… relevant but short. Kinda trying to explain why things didn' come to a head a lot sooner than they could have. Thanks for reading

Kasan Soulbalde

Snatch and grab, it was a baby assignment and an insult fro someone with all his yeas and experience. Insults were supposed to gall, rub raw, make tempers snap and deaths occur. Those ruled by their professionalism wouldn't have it any other way. You took the jobs that were your skill level, anything less and you knew you were going to the block and anything more and you were on the block with the axe swingin' down besides. That was the demands of pride, the chain that bound those to a code of honor.

Luckily for him he wasn't Wutia, so a niggling thing like hurt feeling and ego weren't gunna get him down.

Discretion was the key to this job. The slant of stealth had been added to make it more… appropriate for a man of his skills. Grab and snatch became sneak, grab, snatch, and don't kill any civilians. Slice o' truth, from one Turk to another, the boss-man's orders made things a tiny bit harder. They also made the job boring as hell. He spent a lot of time just watching his "target" prance from place to place whistling tunes he didn't quite know. With a cheery smile she wound through cess pool that was the slums with a sunny smile singing song long forgotten with words that he thought he remembered from _somewhere_.

And that freaked him out. Funny, how some song could play his nerves all taunt, but her song did.

"Come on already… come on…"

Back to the wall he watched her from a groove in the alley by the target's favorite home away from home. A church, of all places. His hiding place was far from glorious, the smells were wild and harsh and normally reserved for garbage heaps, but he endured even as his uniform's backside was getting plastered with wet muck. Luckily Turk issued uniforms being what they were it was unlikely that his back was gunna be soaked through with… whatever… but the chill on his back and the hot of the air was making him want to dance the "gotta go" dance in short order.

He smiled, the white of his teeth cutting a line on his pale face, the curling brackets of his tattoos made the cut bleed. Finally, alone at last! With a chuckle Reno pushed off the wall and started to strut out of the alley. One second later an old crone shuffled out from some place beyond the Turk's previous range of vision. With a hissed curse the Turk hopped back into the dark and dank alley into his nice slimy cold crevice on this hot Midgarian day.

He had a feeling that he'd just blown his one shot.

Right as always the old woman went into the busted up church. His keen ears couldn't catch the words, but the tone -or rather the wheeze to the woman's voice- told the whole world how woefully weak she was.

But weak or not she was a witness, and that was all he needed to make this run an empty handed one.

It was all Reno could do _not_ to scream in frustration. Not very Turk like that, to scream as the target got away with living free another day. Shoving his hands into his pockets Reno decided to call it a day, not even a Turk could wander the slums after dark, and the lower plate was gunna get dark soon. With a squeak a rat took Reno's movement as a signal to make a break for freedom. As it skittered by his foot, Reno lashed out. The vermin pulled a few barrel rolls in its flight before landing on some shattered glass. Soon the semi-translucent green stuff was sprinkled with a few drops of red.

Tseng was gunna be pissed when he heard about this. Correction, boss-man was gunna be _royally _pissed. And if that deadly form of boss/underling pressure wasn't bad enough the President was carrying on like the fate of Shinra was riding on this catch.

As he padded out of the alley, hands jammed in his pockets to keep petty thieves from picking his pockets Reno's scowling face kept the smarter of the muggers out of his way.

Good for the longevity of the local scum population but a bad prospet for improving his temper. Reno was ticked and when he was ticked he liked to hit things. And I he could get his mitts on someone that really deserved to get the crap beat out of them all the better.


	13. Tripod prt1

The Glass Façade

Chapter 13

Tripod prt 1

The camera's image was of mediocure quality. Grainy, restricted to two shades (grey and paler grey), the pictures were of poor quality, still he watched them, once, twice, and for each veiwing he felt that cold, hard, wieght, fold over his heart. The moment came, having seen it at least twice he was prepared, it came and went and he shutddered. Camera C541A0 was the provider of a scene that would prove to be the crux of his nightmares for so many nights after. He had cursed as the moment had fadded into history, but then he always cursed when shook. Now the profanities dribbled, they weren't barked out with the force of thunderous hate, no... they fell from benumbed lips. His hands shook, something that hadn't happened in nearly a decade. Realization came then, a cold grim certinty that stole all the fire of his ambition and shoved ash into his mouth.

He was getting too old for this.

Reaching up for the remote he leveled it at the screen. A twitch of his thick thumb and history whirled back on itself. Impossible feats went in reverse, and only when the screen's image was a steady block of grey did he release his grip. And it all started again.

Backing him was glory. Shown by symbol, by pictures, and medals inbedded on shining steel plates, the trials of a life time in SOLDIER, and the more mundane threars surmounted as an executive backed him. Glory was so close on hand he could reach behind him and let it hold him up.

Before him though, the images from the Mako reactor started all over again. The moment would come, as it always came.

And he would remember his cry, the muffled battle cry that dribbled frim his lips with a red run of blood.

"_Intruders' got materia, sound the alert._"

_They'd serounded him, black clad, lifeless eyes, looked down him, past him... One of them was familiar, he faceted his gaze on that pale face, idly wondering why the pain from his gut was dying down. Steel grey eyes fasceted on him, seeing the SOLDIER from behind an alien's mask. He knew this black suit, knew him well, and even had respected the man._

_There gazes had met, then steel eyes flicked off of him, then back on, as if realizing the potential mortal slant of the wound._

_"Veld..." He mumbled the words, hacking up another wad of red._

_The Turk hadn't blinked, only watched in mute contemplation over the aging SOLDIER"s suffering. Finally, the words came, the candance of a coward, all but muted by weariness "Pull back, things are out of control, we need time to regroup."_

_He howled in protest, or rather he had tried. Hands reached for him then, claled by his cry. Black gloved, silk sheathed, they had pulled him from laying to sitting and his cry had graduated from protest to agony at the sudden motion. The red from his side that had been coming out in a sticky dribbled gushed out in a torrent of red. Orders were barked, reprimants... But he was beyond that then, for his world had faded from an agony starred grey to an unfeeling black._

Rolling the remote in his calloused fingers, Heidegger grunted as the remebered agony of the gut wound translated itself into a dull ache at this late date. As the images began and the impossibilities played out the Head of Security hummed and hawed about his role in all this. SOLDIER was all but his now, and thier failure -and the subsequesntial destruction of the reactor- could easily be ascribed as his fault. But information was Tseng's job, knowing when these little lapses in security were going to hapen was the Turk's jurisdiction.

Decision made, Heidegger hit the power switch off and the ghostly images of grey faded into black.


	14. Tripod pat 2

Glass Façade

Tripod, part two

_To my readers, There's a bit of… mature allusions in the latter half of this chapter, if need be I'll move the ranking up, but this is more of a one-time mention than anything like a continuous trend. What can I say, President Shinra's no saint. KS_

Leaning forward, fat rim med eyes folded into wrinkled slits with a spot of color at there enter the Fat Man's whole frame rippled as he tried to room. Years of raining allowed the Turk in the Fat Man's presence to remain placid. The emotions that boiled around his chest were as nothing, and since "supposed" did not exist then there were no emotions. Overall it was a much more effective measure than just merely suppressing the troublesome illogical facets of his psyche.

As silence spread and deepened the fat man's rage provided more than enough emotion to fill the space of the office. Little wonder the walls didn't quake with the man's emoting.

"That's your big report… nothing." The words came out with a hiss, idly the Turk lost in a miasma of detachment and observation likened the sound to that of steam seeping out some seam before the whole contraption blew.

Arms clasped behind his back, Tseng did nothing, said nothing, he scarcely breathed. There were SOLDIERS here, the black of there uniformed marking them as first class. A nod from the president, or a howled order, it wouldn't mater how the order was delivered… al it would take was an order for the leash to be snapped. Once free SOLDIER would do what they did best, kill. And despite his Turk training the Wutia Turk would be little more than a rotting piece of carrion in the Fat Man's office.

Damned difficult to complete one's objective while decomposing, he shifted a half step aware that mako filled eyes watched his every motion, missing nothing.

Comprehending nothing…

SOLDIER had truly declined over the last seven years. Stripped of soul, mind, and ideal SOLDIER was supposed to serve as a replacement to the Turks. Striped of all humanity the President had through that SOLDIER would become a more placid form of Turk.

Little did the Fat Man grasp the complexities of the Turks.

Acting under the advice of sycophants and little minded aids he'd rejected years… no centuries of proof that pointed to the fact that the dispirited were the worst form of subject. The uncaring did not guard with diligence, the unmotivated did not aspire much less dare to dream… and without dreams the state of progress withered and died. Oblivious to history's many shining –bloody- exampled the fat man had pressed on with this SOLDIER modification program. An increase o drugs and Mako transfusions had numbed the very personalities of the SOLDIER who had to endure them. Perfect killers, they killed without remorse and indifference, as strong as mythical WEAPONS and deadly enough that a handful of these "super" SOLDIERS would give a army of normal men pause.

"Research takes time, it's a delicate process, Mr. President." The Turk murmured, eyes carefully kept low to avoid letting the glint of his scorn serve as a spark to start a lethal confrontation between himself and the President's SOLDIER guards. "We would not want to be so brazen as to show our hand. If AVALANCHE is roused they might kill the subject of our pursuit."

"I've heard that piece of tripe for almost ten years now, Turk."

"Our pray is cunning, gifted with capabilities beyond human comprehension." The Turk rebuked, stating the same comment he'd been trotting out for almost fifteen years now. He obscured the edge of his comment with gauze wove from his servile tone and a soft voice with little accent beyond that. But first and foremost he kept his head down. The Turk knew the Fat Man's petty hatreds, and the mere slant of the Turk's black eyes might trigger that final, fatal, confrontation.

"Subtlety, sir, is the core of our… acquisition." The Turk murmured. "While Reno's report of… non-acquisition is indeed tragic we are now somewhat more aware of the Target's location. The time of the hunt begins as we begin to acquire the most up to date information on our target. Now, all we need is a distraction. I am furthermore pleased to repot that we have one that is well on its way towards completion."

A the all but promised "progress" Alex Soloman Shirna drew a deep breath. Another came and went, it was rather like listening to a dual horn take beginners breathing exercises. After a span of many breaths had passed –most of the loud and with a bit of a obese man's wheeze- did the Turk dare look up. The familiar furious scarlet had receded from the Fat Man's cheeks, he looked a touch… comic with his face a bright shade of pink.

"Why didn't you say that earlier?" Was the surly response from the company's President.

_Because it would please me greatly to report to my Lord that you'd finally died from cardiac arrest, you bastard._

"Sir." Neither rebuke nor response, Tseng didn't waste breath elaborating beyond that one sound. Finally, annoyed, the president lifted a thick fingered hand and waived it. Clearly the Turk was being dismissed.

"Go repot to my brat then, although it's my personal bet you're interested in getting into his pants rather than going over "paperwork"." The Fat Man sneered, rolling the deadly insult off his tongue as if it one of the dirty truths known by the world over and sniggered over in private. "Just remember, Wutia, I'm the one providing the paychecks here. Think about that when you give the brat your "report"."

Turning on his heel Tseng strode for the room's sole exit, his steps silent as the death he dolled out.

"I want her alive, Tseng." The president of Shinra Electric snapped after his Turk, tone alone making the words a crack of a whip. "Alive, you hear me?"

Once Tseng would have stopped, at least showing he was insulted, neither would he have tolerated being treated like a rookie. No, with so much at stake, he held to a stoic demeanor even as he never bother to turn back. The door opened quietly and slammed shut on the Wutia's departure.

"Damned freak." Letting gravity ease him into the familiar curves of his tall backed chair the President lifted on meaty hand to wipe a sheen of sweat from his face. "He's nothing more than a slant eyed freak."

A duet of "yes sirs" reached the President Shinra's ears, it had a dull droning quality, those voices, but that was infinitely better than the dog-bark of a Wutia's accent.

"Did you see the man's pony tail?" The President snickered, shaking his head at the absurdity of the Wutia's fashion sense. "Little wonder the brat lets slant eyes play ewe to his ram. He certainly looks enough like a woman in dim light."

Another chorus of "yes sir's" sounded, and pleased that he was proven right –he always was right- Alex Shinra dropped his hands over his formidable paunch.

"Go report to your "Lord", Turk, he's powerless, just like you."


End file.
